Work Text:
He had always thought that, in the course of his career, he would be the one to get injured, or at least seriously so. He would be the one with the broken bones and the deep cuts, the wounds that needed tending and care. He’d had his share of them over the years, of course, but as he had slowly let others help him with his cases, join him as he tracked down the lowest of the low, he hadn’t expected them to get hurt. Lestrade and John…they could handle it. Lestrade was a copper, John a former soldier.
Molly, however, was neither.
He had helped her learn how to defend herself, how to fight back some. He had helped her learn how to use items as improvised weaponry, how to shoot a gun, how to wound enough to escape a situation. And she was a good learner, very quick and studious, very proficient in what she learned. He knew she could, to some extent, keep herself safe.
As their relationship changed, though, and they went from friends to more than that, he worried that he shouldn’t put her in that position. She loved the cases, loved helping him, but he loved her and he wanted to keep her safe. And tonight…tonight he could have lost her. If she had landed the wrong way in the tumble down the stairs, if the knife cuts had been deeper, if there had been thrusts instead of slashes…
He didn’t want to dwell on it as he let them into Baker Street. She was dirty and the paramedics and doctor had only cleaned the parts that they needed to stitch up and bandage. She was covered in grime and she said she wanted to be clean before going to bed, so he had offered to give her a sponge bath so she didn’t disturb any of the bandages. They made their way into the loo and he watched her reach for the hem of her jumper, the one with the kittens playing on it. She hadn’t been wearing it when she was injured, which he was glad for. She had a fondness for this one, and he wasn’t sure he would have been able to find a suitable replacement. Mary had brought it when he had called her, asking for a fresh shirt and jumper for Molly, as her other shirt and jumper had been cut to shreds. She winced as she lifted her arms up.
“Let me,” he said, gently putting his hands over her. She slowly moved her hands away and straightened her arms, and he gathered jumper and T-shirt underneath in his grip and then pulled up. There were bandages on her torso and back, some of them covering stitches, and as he got the clothing off her arms he saw more there, though not as many. He let his fingers run over her skin for a moment, edging some of the bandages.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He nodded before reaching for the zipper of her skirt, lowering it. That was caked with the grime and mud from the puddle at the foot of the stairs where she had fallen, but it could still be saved. The stockings could not, however. He let the skirt fall to the floor once he pushed it off her hips and then went to work peeling the stockings off her legs. He saw small scrapes and abrasions that had been covered by the stockings that needed attention. When he got to her feet he helped her out of her flats and then pulled the stockings off.
After a moment he divested her of her undergarments. He had seen her naked many times in the last few months, and he’d spent countless hours marveling at how lovely she looked, at how lucky he was to get to see her in that state. Tonight, though, he saw the aftermath of a dangerous night, and was blaming himself for it, his mantra in his head being “This is all you, this is your doing, and this is your fault.”
Molly climbed into the bathtub and he adjusted the taps until there was warm water, and he let it run until the bottom of the tub was filled up to the tops of her hips, about five centimeters under the lowest bandage on her abdomen. She sat up as Sherlock reached over for the loofah sponge she used when she took a shower. He dipped the sponge in the water before taking some of the liquid soap she used that smelled like jasmine and squirting it on the sponge. “I should sterilize the cuts and scrapes on your legs,” he said quietly, taking the sponge and gently cleaning her legs.
“After I’m clean,” she said, planting her hands on the bottom of the bathtub. When he got the leg farthest from her done he began to clean her other leg. “Sherlock, please don’t stop taking me on cases. Please.”
He stilled in what he was doing. “You could have died tonight,” he said quietly.
“You taught me how to block someone attacking with a knife,” she said, turning to face him. “You taught me how to properly fall. Sherlock, I can take care of myself.” After a moment she hesitantly reached over to touch his face. Water ran down his chin from where her hand rested, but he ignored that. “I love being a part of what you do, more than just being at St. Bart’s and doing the autopsies. It’s something I look forward to. And I know it’s dangerous, but I want to keep doing it. And I want to keep doing it with you.”
“Are you saying you would do it without me if I said you couldn’t?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“I’d strongly consider it,” she said, caressing his cheek. “We do make a good team, Sherlock. You have to admit that.”
After a moment he nodded slightly, and she removed her hand and he went back to cleaning her leg. “We do,” he agreed. “I work very well with you. I just got…scared. You didn’t move for a few moments after you tumbled down the stairs. I thought the worst.”
“I didn’t move because I thought he might come down to see if I was dead,” she said. “I wanted the element of surprise.
A small smile begrudgingly curled at the corners of his mouth. “That was a sound strategy. What were you going to do next?”
“Get him down on the ground, knock him out. Keep him from hurting you.”
He let the sponge drop into the water as he moved both hands to her face, looking at her intently. She wanted to keep him safe. She wanted to protect him. He leaned in and kissed her softly, resting his forehead against hers when he was done. “If you keep saying things like that, I may have to insist you marry me,” he said.
“I may have to insist you actually give me the ring you have hidden in the sock drawer, then,” she said with a soft laugh, and he could tell she was smiling.
“I may just do that,” he said, and after a moment she embraced him. He held her close, glad she was all right, glad she wanted to continue to work with him, glad she would consider actually marrying him. He was glad she was such an integral part of his life and that she seemed to want to be around for a long, long time. And, at this exact moment, he was glad she was there in his arms, safe and sound and only a little battered and bruised, because she was alive and well, and that was what mattered most.